Dial Emmy for Murder by Eileen Davidson

Peterson.”
    “You were calling me Alex last year, Detective.”
    “That was last year.”
    “I’m sorry you feel betrayed by Tiffany—by me,” I said, wondering if I was going to need help from security—and, if I did, if they could get to me in time.
    But Davis did not have the look of a crazed fan. I’d seen them enough times before to know. It was usually in the eyes. Or possibly their sweaty palms. Or their tendency to space invade. You know, get a little too close for comfort. Or their willingness to buy your character a present for her wedding. Or when you find out they’ve just been released from prison and they know every signpost on your way from work to your home. Or they threaten to kill you and security has to walk you to your car after work. I digress.
    “This isn’t about that,” he said.
    “What’s it about?”
    “Frank Jakes.”
    “What about him?”
    “He’s going out on a limb for you,” Davis said. “Putting his career on the line.”
    “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
    “By bringing you into his investigation, letting you know certain things, he’s breaking the rules.”
    “Why’s he doing that?”
    “You don’t know?”
    I shrugged. “He thinks I can help him?”
    “You’re smarter than that.”
    “Look,” I said, “I haven’t encouraged him—”
    “Haven’t you?”
    “No, I haven’t,” I said pointedly. “I hadn’t seen him at all until . . . until all this.”
    “But now you’ve seen him a few times,” he said. “Since the other day, at the Emmy show.”
    “Have you talked to him about this?”
    He hesitated and then said, “No, I haven’t mentioned it to him.”
    “A man was killed, Detective,” I said. “A friend of mine. All I’m doing is trying to help.”
    “But you’re not helping,” Davis said. “I suggest you stay out of it and leave it to the experts.”
    I was suddenly pissed at being warned off. “So why doesn’t Jakes tell me that?”
    “He won’t,” Davis said. “He should, but he won’t.”
    “Then maybe you should be having this talk with him,” I said, “not me. Please move so I can get in my car.”
    I watched him in my rearview mirror as he watched me until we were out of each other’s sight.
     
    I was mad, but I didn’t know who I was maddest at—Davis for warning me off, Jakes for putting me in this situation, or myself.
    As I was driving home, my Bluetooth rang in my car. Living in Los Angeles means only hands-free cell phone usage in vehicles. I pushed the phone symbol on my steering wheel. “Hello.”
    “Alex? It’s Andy. I got that information you wanted—”
    “Hold on, Andy.”
    I pulled over and parked, and then took a pad and pen from the glove compartment.
    “Andy, how are you?”
    “I’m fine, sweetie,” he said. “Fine. Yesterday I was a little . . . well, you know.”
    “Yeah, I know,” I said. “What did you find out for me?”
    “You were right. Aaron Summers did audition for a part on the show early last year. Needless to say, he didn’t get it.”
    “Do you have an address for him?”
    “Yep, here it is.”
    I wrote it down. Like a lot of young actors, Aaron Summers had chosen to live in the heart of Hollywood, a place called Beachwood Canyon, near the Hollywood Hills. There were lots of beautiful houses there . . . and lots of not so beautiful dives. But it is an artsy community with lots of color and history.
    “Any other information?”
    “Well, yeah, I got a copy of his resume and head shot.”
    “Can you fax me the resume?”
    “Sure. Not the head shot?”
    “Sure, the head shot, too.”
    I gave him my fax number. “Thanks for this, Andy.”
    “Sure, Alex, but why—”
    “I can’t hear you, Andy. I’m in a canyon. . . . You’re breaking up!” Cheap ploy, but effective. He was about to ask me why I wanted the information or what I was going to do with it, and I didn’t have an answer for either one.
    I started the car and, instead of going home, headed for